


Bonding

by jenna_thorn



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Strike Team Delta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna_thorn/pseuds/jenna_thorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The transistion from <i>Strike Team Delta</i> to the Black Widow and Hawkeye of the Avengers and Agent Coulson of SHIELD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bonding

**Author's Note:**

> Written before the first episode of Agents of SHIELD airs. 
> 
> Read as: yes, I'm fully expecting to be Jossed.

_Sharing Food:_

Steve blinked awake to see Thor picking lazily at the fries in the basket in front of Banner and a man in a black suit standing outside the glass door. He straightened and Romanov put her hand on Barton’s knee. He jerked awake with a visible start then froze. She patted him and he blinked and took a shuddering breath. Thor upended the ketchup bottle but nothing came out. He tapped the greasy crumbs into his mouth anyway.

Steve tossed a slice of olive at Stark who glanced up from the gadget in his hands and patted Banner’s arm. Thor bounced to his feet, shedding concrete dust and shredded lettuce as he walked to the door. As a group, they followed.

_Dermabond:_

When they entered the building, Steve realized that he’d seen it, just from the other direction, the long white hall and frosted glass. Stark peeled away from the group, Banner in tow like a toddler, and Steve figured he’d already worn out what welcome he might have had. That left him with Romanov and Barton, and he didn’t really know what welcome was there, either. He’d had enough of sitting alone in a room with thin walls, though, so he followed them into and out of the elevator, but stopped when they did, halfway down one more featureless hallway.

Romanov curled her hand through Barton’s arm. He blinked twice but as she put her head on his shoulder, he pulled back, took both her hands and pulled her around to face him. She tilted her head so that her hair fell forward and whispered something just at the edge of Steve's hearing, or really, just past it, because he could have sworn she said “Gandalf the white” and there was no reason that a character from an old fantasy novel should hit Barton like a blow to the gut. He kissed her forehead and said, “Of all the bets with you I’ve lost, that one ... that one I’d be happy to pay.” Barton walked away, hiding a limp, and Steve saw Romanov shoot him a wary glance.

“Agent Romanov?” he called, as he approached. She straightened to face him fully, her face wholly blank and he thought that maybe that’s what anger looked like, on her. “Is he favoring his left side?”

“I pulled a lot of glass out of his back,” she answered.

“He’s headed to medical, right?”

“Are you going to shadow him?”

“Should I?” he asked. She tilted her chin up defiantly and he continued, “Because I need to know, agent. I need to know now, and you know him better than I do. You know all of, heck, you probably know _me_ better than I do, but I’m asking for your help.”

She didn’t look down and so Steve couldn’t look away, but she lifted her hand to her ear and said, not really to him, “Get a signoff from the desk. Captain TightPants wants a doctor’s note.”

Steve didn’t bother to hide his frown, but he’d take what victory he could. “Thank you, I think.”

She held up one finger to halt him. “No. No, that’s not… Meet me at…” The pause was short, but, Steve thought, significant. “Meet me in the bathroom nearest Sitwell’s office.” She dropped her hand and stood. “Captain, how are you at field dressing?”

“Not as good as some.”

“Come and get some practice in, then.”

He followed her to the elevator, down a hallway and balked when she entered a flat door with a stylized girl in a dress on it. Romanov’s voice carried through the closing door. “… not deliberate, Clint, you know that.” He could hear Barton mumble through the door, though, so he pushed it open to hear Barton say, “… bits of fletching on the trays and…” He looked up, blinked at Steve, and turned to Romanov. “Why’d you bring him?”

“He needs refresher course in bullet holes and you need a smack to the head.”

“Been there, done that,” he grumbled, but he raised her hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles. She pulled it free and backhanded him casually across the cheek. Barton tossed the kit to Steve and Steve gave up trying to figure them out.

Barton said, “I doubt any of them are actual bullet holes, but…” He’d gotten his tac vest unzipped and off one shoulder, but he stopped, his eyes closed and his lips tight against his teeth. “I think I missed something.”

She stepped around him, then crooked a finger at Steve. “You, hold this up while I pull.” Leaning over Barton as he was, Steve could hear a whistling indrawn breath from Barton as she pulled the vest up and off his back. Fresh blood welled and dripped slowly down into his shredded shirt.

“Ow,” Barton said, quietly.

“Wienie,” Romanov answered.

“Are you sure you don’t need an actual doctor?” Steve asked. Barton twisted to the side and Romanov shoved him, hard enough to pin him against where Steve stood, still bent over him.

“Hold still, brat,” she said, drawling out the vowel enough to make it sound like a different word.

Steve poked his fingers through the holes in the shirt she handed him. “Because there’s an infirmary a couple of floors down.” The sharp scent of antiseptic was uncomfortably familiar, he thought, and Barton shifted again. Steve moved to intercept, not quite pinning him, just bracing him, with his legs. He knew Barton could have gotten by him, even with Romanov’s hand on his shoulder, but he just sagged, as though the act of leaning into someone as Romanov dragged individual cloth pads reeking of alcohol over his skin was somehow habit.

“They’re busy,” Barton mumbled.

Steve nodded. “I would suppose so.” The sharp look in Romanov’s eyes made it clear he was missing something important, but he couldn’t think what, and Barton’s ribs were purple where they weren’t smeared brown with drying blood. “What with all the … oh.” That’s what he was missing. Barton didn’t miss.

“Yeah, ‘oh’,” Barton said, and Romanov directed her unblinking gaze to his back again.

“Good thing we’ve got a bunch of those wipes, then,” Steve said as he lifted Barton’s arm, careful of the shoulder. “Let’s check your ribs.”

\--::--

_A leash:_

Fury stood, towering over him. “Look me in the eye and tell me you could have gone into that battle, knowing he was…thinking he was dead, and it wouldn’t have affected you. Because as you know, I am the king of fucking Bad Ass….” Clint dropped his eyes, though he didn’t smile. Phil had let him keep that phrase on his report for that mission and what a way to find out that Fury really did read them. “And I was having trouble keeping my cool. I needed you functioning, not foaming at the mouth.”

“I’m not a dog,” Clint mumbled to the carpet between his feet.

“You’re wrong. You are. You’re my attack dog and you’re Romanov’s puppy and you’re Coulson’s guard dog and if you think different on _any_ of the above, you’re fooling yourself, but not me. “

“You have such a way with words, Director.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You know Coulson’d show his belly to Steve, if he asked.”

“Years of work-inappropriate images,” Fury said, rolling his neck with a grinding noise, “and you hit me with that one, today.” But Fury lost the glare, even if he didn’t actually lose the frown, and like a light had switched on, standing there in front of Clint was Phil’s best friend, the guy who talked about Laos only after midnight, and Afghanistan only after one too many beers.

Clint rubbed his face with the back of his hand. “Sir, I’m s—“

“You going to apologize for hitting me center mass instead of a double tap next to the patch?”

“No, sir.”

“You going to apologize for letting Hill duck?”

“No, sir.”

“The shut the hell up, specialist. By the way, Strategy and Recon wants to talk to you.”

“Oh shit.”

“They’re very excited. Even brought in cupcakes. Sharpened their pencils.”

“I don’t suppose this is voluntary.”

“No, Agent, it is not. Do you want to know why? Tough shit, because I’m going to spell it out for you whether you want it or not. This is your penance. I’m punishing you.”

“With cupcakes?”

Fury snorted. “You are going to talk to S&R and you are going to grit your teeth and tell them every counter, every weakness, every loose bolt in our armor. And then you are going to go to Psych and either tell them what they want to hear or let them help you, I don’t give a rat’s ass which, and after you have done that, as a reward, I will tell Medical to let you in so you can quit skulking in the hall and freaking out the doctors.”

“Just the docs?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. The nurses are made of stronger stuff. Get the hell out of my office.”

He pulled the door open and walked past Mrs. Kandinsky’s desk, too tired to fake a smile, too tired to bridle at the pity in her eyes. He sighed when Natasha fell into step with him in the corridor. “I know what you’re doing,” he said.

“Congratulations, you’ve mastered recognizing walking.” She changed her even pace to a step, step, and drag. “No? Waltz. Want to try for foxtrot? _Pas de chat_?”

He ran one hand through his hair. “Good cop, bad cop.”

“So I'm the bad cop?” She grinned sideways at him and he snorted.

“Don’t tell Fury you’re onto him. Does the mind game work if the perp knows?”

“You tell me.”

“I hate when you do that.”

“Do what?” She asked, as she pulled her arms into the air and went up on her toes, fluttering in tiny steps down the hall but matching his pace effortlessly.

“Jesus Christ, why do we even have a psych department? We have you to repeat everything I say in the form of a question.”

She dropped to stand normally and poked him in the chest. “No, dumbass, you have me. The plebes have to deal with Murray,” she said and walked away.

“I hate you,” he said, automatically following her through another doorway.

“I know, dear,” she said, patting his arm. “Here we are.”

“Did you just .. you just escorted me to S&R.”

“I heard they had cupcakes,” she said with a shrug.

\--::--

_Practical jokes:_

“Hey Tony, why is Jarvis calling Steve ‘Captain Spanglebutt’?” Clint swung himself up into the beam over Tony’s head.

“Whoops, because I forgot to cancel that. Jarvis, return to previous nomenclature. “

Clint laughed over Jarvis’ dry thanks. “Seriously?”

“He pissed me off.”

“That’s just, that’s too easy, man. That’s on the level of running a search and replace and renaming every reference to the WSC as Assholes Anonymous. I expect better from you.”

“I wasn’t pissed enough to put any real effort into it. Wait, what?”

“I think Fury may have even considered laughing for about half a second.” Clint swung his feet, his boots laces trailing though the holographic interplay. “Hey, how come Jarvis ignores me?”

“We all ignore you, Barton.”

“Yeah yeah, but really. I’m not messing with your corner, here.” He pointed one toe and passed through the upper edge of the line drawing of the building.”I should be Hulk smashing the helipad. Rawr!” He kicked again. The blue lines stayed put.

“Jarvis can recognize the difference between incidental and deliberate movement.”

“Shit, he’s smarter than most of our firearms trainers.”

“That goes without saying.”

“Medical’s about to kick Coulson out.”

“Yeah, Pep said…Coulson’s one of the firearms trainers?”

“Hunh? No, not normally….Oh, you were trying to follow my logic. Good luck with that one. I defy your petty earth logic. But yeah, Coulson’s the one who busted me after the …um… the gelatin incident. Training.”

Tony paused for a moment, leaning with both hands against his table and looking up at Clint’s grin. ”You, firearms training, newbies, and gelatin.”

Clint sang, “Watch it wiii-ggglle; see iiiit jiiii-gggle.”

“Jarvis, until further notice, any verbal reference to Agent Barton is to be expressed with the phrase ‘Jell-O Shots’.”

“Yes, sir.”

\---:::---

_Birds of a feather:_

Even in June the breeze at the top of the building was brisk at dusk. Clint could hear the roof access door creak and he thought about slipping off the edge, freeclimbing down the face of the building. He’d add the reprimand to his collection of paper airplanes and reinforce his reputation with Accounting. He sighed and took another pull from the bottle of beer instead. He could hear gravel crunch, so that limited his potential guests, and the slightest scrape in addition to steps dropped that to one.

“Agent Coulson.”

“Must we?” Phil said quietly enough to ignore.

“Must we what? Must you invade my private picnic spot with boring suits, lame ass suits, no less. Nice cane.”

“Must we revert to ten years ago, Mr. Barton? Drinking on the roof?”

“Pretty sure we weren’t in this building last time we did this, Agent Coulson.”

“You’re right,” Natasha said. “Plus, you gave up drinking alone when you started drinking with me.”

He glared as she melted out of the shadows. “Now you’re double teaming me?”

Phil said, “We make a good team. “

“Made, Phil, past tense,” Clint said and he could hear the gravel underfoot crunch as Phil shifted his weight.

Natasha laid a hand in his hair and he leaned into it. He always would. Even as she tightened her grip. “You’re being an ass.”

“It’s in my job description,” Clint said to her knee.

She let go and stroked him, forehead to neck. “You know he didn’t leave you.”

“Yeah, he kind of did.”

Phil interrupted, “Wait, are we talking about my taking the new team or are we talking about my dying?”

“Yes,” Clint snarled.

\--::--

_Showing off party tricks:_

Clint called out, “Hi Steve!” cheerfully when he entered the room. Bruce startled and only then did Steve notice the blindfold over Clint’s face.

“Another witness to your inevitable defeat.” Tony snickered and Clint grinned.

“A larger audience for my inevitable victory. Next.”

Steve glanced at the box beside Tony’s knees as Tony drew out something wrapped in oilcloth and flipped it open. “Fine,” Tony said, laughter evident through his faked indignation. “No more softballs. Try this one.”

Clint ran his fingertips over the machine gun as Tony put it in front of him. "Thompson , but the cocking mechanism is on the side so it's an M1, and not the M1928.” He slid the breech open and slid a fingertip inside, then slapped it closed again and pulled it across his lap, and stuck his tongue out at Tony.

“Shit," Tony said, and Clint grinned again. At the edge of the room, where she sat leaning over to peer at Coulson’s laptop screen, Natasha rolled her eyes, but she nodded at Tony and to Steve, she seemed pleased.

Tony handed Clint an elaborately engraved compact handgun. Clint ran his fingers across it, then picked it up, keeping the barrel down as he smoothly ejected the magazine and cleared the breech. He laid it flat on the palm of one hand, running the fingertips of the other along the length of the gun. “Walther PPK, but the weight’s off.” He tilted his head and rubbed his thumb along the grip, then across the slide. “What’s with the engraving .. oh for fuck’s sake, Tony? Why do you have a movie collectable PPK … this is a Bond thing, isn’t it?”

“And you’re going to forfeit unless you can tell me which Bond.”

“Not part of the parameters of the bet,” Bruce warned, but Clint snorted and answered, “Dude, gotta be Moore. Inlay? You think even the Franklin Mint would dare put that crap in Connery’s hands?”

“Could have been Lazenby,” Tony grumbled as he took the weapon out of Clint’s hands.

“Could’ve been your mom,” Clint answered. Tony popped the clasps on a hard side case and Steve slipped back to his quarters as silently as he could.

He returned with a rifle in one hand and his finger to his lips. He handed it to Tony, who handed it to Clint. “Rifle with scope with a drum magazine.” He cupped the odd magazine and snorted. "Seriously, Tony, where did you get this? Johnston M1941, less than thirty thousand made, issued to the Marine Corps in 1941, but the scope is German, a Ziess, so it’s a field upgrade.” He paused and trailed his fingertips along the bottom of the stock. “With a scratched in … Steve, you aren’t as sneaky as you think you are and Coulson just popped a woody over there.”

“You can tell that from here?” Bruce actually looked. Phil stood up indignantly and handed his laptop to Natasha.

“I know this didn’t go down with you.” Clint held the rifle to his shoulder, his hand around the trigger guard rather than in it, as Phil crossed the room. “Hey Coulson, wanna hold Steve’s Johnson?” Coulson cleared his throat and took the weapon, peering at the sigil scratched into the stock.

Steve shrugged. “Not actually mine. Apparently someone packed up my stuff. Some of Bucky’s got mixed in with it.”

Tony snorted and leaned back in his chair. “Fury must have a whole row of storage lockers somewhere. He collects antiques.”

“He keeps track of useful items,” murmured Coulson, peering out the window through the scope. “And has an eye for what may be useful in the future.”

\--::--

_Holidays:_

As much fun as Avenger call-outs were, and he was kidding no one, being a superhero was mostly fun, even if only after the bruises faded, there was something to be said, Clint thought, for old fashioned long term surveillance. Three days under the stars, forty feet above the air, rocking in a cradle of oak and leaves. “Whitsun, you copy?”

“Roger.”

“Remind me next time to charge my Kindle.”

“Not unless you can read it through your scope.”

“Was that Coulson? How long have you been on?”

“Did you miss me?” Coulson asked.

“I don’t miss. I just thought you didn’t love m…us anymore. Since you replaced us with a team of teenaged girls.”

“I don’t. Newark wrapped and I decided to accumulate evidence for your annual evaluations.”

“My space on Santa’s naughty list is engraved permanently, but you do what you like.”

“Your permission is wholly unnecessary, Barton.”

“Hey, you think we could get Fury in a Santa suit?”

The comm line went so completely silent that the only explanation was that everyone in the surveillance van had muted their lines simultaneously.

“No,” Coulson said eventually.

“For kids? For charity? For a bet?”

“No.”

“S’okay, I’ve got photoshop.”

“Do it and I’ll tell Melinda you called her a teenage girl.”

“May loves me.”

“May loves your partner.”

“Everybody loves Nat…wait, I just thought of a better use for Photoshop. Bow chicka bow wow.”

Whitsun said, “Movement at three.”

“Nope. Deer. Doe, actually. Don’t think we need the meat.”

Whitsun said, “Also not in season, also I didn’t pick up a hunting license for you.”

Coulson said, “You’ve got this one trained to do your paperwork already?”

Clint grinned. “I like her. Hey Whitsun, if you get donuts, we’ll let you play freeze tag.”

“You do realize that I know what freeze tag is, right?”

Coulson’s voice was warm when he said, “I see why you like her.”

\--::--

_Working together:_

Steve looked up as the light at the door blinked, then the door itself slipped open and Coulson stepped in. “Oh thank you. I wasn’t sure if you were available.”

“You didn’t think I’d come scampering when you called?”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “Tony doesn’t mean anything by the wisecracks.”

“Oh, he does; I just don’t care. You requested my assistance?”

Steve tapped the tablet then peered at the icons. “The, uh, the thing in the East River…”

“File MA-13-7-AS”

“No, that’s not the right file. It ends in B.”

“It’s been re-classed from secret to restricted public.”

Steve looked up. “You _are_ renaming them. I thought I was remembering them wrong, but you’re changing the file names.”

“It’s intended to minimize duplication within … ”

Steve dropped the tablet to the table. It spun a bit farther away than he’d expected. “Oh, how nice to know it’s not deliberate, to make me think I’m … missing something.”

“It’s not deliberate.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“Perception,” Coulson said.

“Come again?”

“My statement was fact. You perceive it differently, but it is fact. I have no … The agency has no intent to undermine your faith in yourself, in your abilities, or your team. That we have apparently done so is also fact, however, and something else for me to correct.” He sat, folded his hands together and suddenly Steve remembered the age difference, the real age difference, between them.

He felt like he’d gotten caught cussing by a nun. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“I hate disappointing people.”

“You have not done so, Captain. Or at least, not to my knowledge.”

“You sure look pissed off. Well, sort of. Pretty sure if you ever actually got pissed off Fury’d yell and Clint’d snap, so… vaguely disgruntled would be…” he trailed off and Coulson continued to laugh into the table he’d laid his head on. “You okay?”

“No.”

“Glass of water or call for backup?”

Coulson chuckled. He opened his mouth as though to say something but when Steve waited, he just shook his head and shut it again. “What about the East River incident, Captain?”

\--::--

_Splitting desserts:_

“You’re an idiot,” Natasha said as she stole Clint’s spoon and ate his ice cream. Bruce blinked, but Clint seemed resigned.

“You leaving again or should I get a second spoon?”

“Enh. Rum Raisin. All yours.”

“Yes, yes it was and is and shall be once you stop licking. Girl cooties. Why am I an idiot?”

“Other than the usual?”

“Jesus, Nat, yes, other than the usual, you’re freaking Bruce out.”

“I’m just eating ice cream over here, but I can leave.”

Natasha leaned against the table. “Don’t leave, enjoy your...what _is_ that?”

Clint giggled. “You should have seen him. Every mix-in they had. Awesome.”

Bruce grinned up at her. “I had trouble deciding.”

“You’re going to have trouble finishing.” Her voice was teasing, and he shrugged and grinned and chased a mini M&M around the bowl.

“Nah, we’ve got a plan for that, right, Doc?”

“And would this plan be Steve? Right, his indigestion is not my problem.” She tapped the table, her fingernails clicking near Clint’s ice cream. “Read your email.”

“I read it, okay? He’s cleared for full duty, he’s going back into the field, but not with us. He’s got a new sniper, oh better, a new _asshole_ sniper, though this one’s got discipline issues in the other direction, points for creativity there, a new set of science twins and a sexy Emma Peel. Tadaa! Avengers Lite.”

“May’s not actually going back into field status. And you didn’t read the rest of it.”

“The rest is just HR crap.”

“Coulson’s grooming Ward to replace you on the Avengers.”

“What?” Bruce shouted, but Clint just sighed and dropped his spoon into what was left of his ice cream. Natasha glanced at Bruce and, behind her back, flashed a hand signal he had no possible way to interpret. He pulled his email up on his phone, and as he did, she leaned over Clint. “I’m lying. But the very fact that you believed me …”

“Give it a rest, Tasha, please?”

“No, I will not. You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, and you’re a bitch,” he said with no heat. He poked the ice cream twice with his spoon, made a face, and pushed it to the center of the table.

Bruce read the email twice, “But she’s telling the truth, um, about … about lying. There’s nothing here about Ward and the Avengers. Besides, Coulson doesn’t make that call. Steve does.”

Clint pushed off the table with both hands, shoving his chair back. “Not what she was saying, Bruce.” He left, not storming, just sad. Natasha picked up his bowl and put it, spoon and all, in the freezer.

“Was that necessary?”Bruce asked, keeping his tone even.

“Yes, and either I’ve underestimated you, or you already know why.” The look she shot him was openly hostile, and he wondered for a moment how many men had been allowed to see that. “I really dislike discovering that I’ve underestimated someone.”

“Marshmallow?” he asked, and offered his laden spoon.

\--::--

_Casual physical contact:_

“Okay,” Clint said, dropping his bag by the mat and toeing off his shoes. “Apparently I’m an idiot.”

“Is this going to involve the federal authorities or just local police?”

“Um, neither, but maybe Dr. Murray,” Clint said and he saw the twitch of Coulson’s full attention suddenly being re-focused on him. “Um, sort of. I uh.”

“I am not replacing you with another sniper, or the Avengers with my new team.”

“Yeah, I checked.”

“You … checked.” Phil went still and Clint knew that stillness. That was the “shit’s about to get real” still and he ran over what he’d said.

“I mean, you can’t blame me, right? The new paint still stinks around engine three and the memorial plaques aren’t even dusty yet and we both know the WSC would really like my head on a pike if they could put ‘suborned agent number two’ and ‘Clint ‘Bad Decisions’ Barton’ together and I’m beginning to worry about your blood pressure here, Phil. That's not a good color.”

“And that’s why you believe that Delta was retired and I was re-assigned.”

“The other option is kind of insulting to—“ He blocked the first strike but got tagged by the second, high on his ribs and Jesus, Phil was fast. Not as strong, but fast. “Hey, wait!” He snaked a hand around one wrist, sidestepped the headbash that followed, and wrapped his arm around Phil’s chest, to pull him in. Phil froze and only then did Clint realize he’d cupped the scar, Loki’s scar.

“Is that the elephant in the room?” Phil asked the far wall. “Or is it that you are still, after years of working with me, convinced that I’m going to pin you to a tree with arrows and walk away as you bleed out.”

“Neither,” said Clint, followed by “...both.” He sighed. “I don’t know.”

Phil shook his head. His hair brushed across Clint’s face, but Clint didn’t loosen his grip. “I shouldn’t have asked. That’s a question for Dr. Murray. For you.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Clint said, quietly.

“Clint, you going to let go?”

“Do I have to?” He tried to make it a joke, but Phil grabbed his hand and wrapped it over his own shoulder.

“No. I’m not going anywhere. Neither is Nat.” Phil said, and Clint didn’t realize he’d started to cry until he sank to his knees on the gym floor, getting snot and tears all over Phil’s Cubs sweatshirt.

\--::--

_Introducing new friends:_

Clint met the plane at the tarmac, duffle in one hand, cell open to a text in the other. “Natasha’s meeting us at the bar. May’s already there and they’ve terrified six assholes and one bouncer’s proposed.”

“How long have they been there?”

“About twenty minutes, give or take. Saw the note from the Wonder Twins. How is Ward doing?”

“He’s got no sense of humor,” Phil said as he let Clint take his bag.

“He probably thinks the same of you, boss. C’mon, it’s happy hour somewhere.” Clint slammed the trunk and grinned. “Let’s get happy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Technical advice for the Party Tricks section from Himself, who finds the fact that I incorporate his job into my fic hilarious. Yes, the "Hold my Johnson" jokes abound.


End file.
